Thorin eyes Summer skeptically still, not entirely certain who she is or still why she has been running through the woods so early in the day.
"You're not fleeing?" he asks, dubious but growing slightly more willing to accept what she is saying as nothing has emerged behind her and she hasn't continued running away, as one would do if one were in danger.
He lowers his stick and cocks his head. "Do I look as though I would dwell among humans?" he asks, because it is obvious, he feels, that he is not one of men. Certainly not one of the men he saw in the city, clean shaven and dressed in their garish clothing. "I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, King under the Mountain."